active

447245261025572

person_profile

eligible

NONE

181066715093574

MeNo001

120208247943940142

a.menovels.com

Learn more

NONE

video

🔥🔥 Click to Read 👉🏻👉🏻

https://a.menovels.com/ad/ZmljZnVuLzE1ODQ5MC8yMDI0MDQyMjIwMDExOS9wYWdl?adid={{ad.id}}

MeNo001

https://scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t39.35426-6/440357272_1606662426571574_4412209157147532290_n.jpg?stp=dst-jpg_s60x60&_nc_cat=100&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=c53f8f&_nc_ohc=NW44xLBNBk8Ab7j4b7D&_nc_ht=scontent-atl3-1.xx&oh=00_AfARrPbj7YY3sXEcakxuOXQnqj3mVG8-1q-hD0BnvuFl5A&oe=662D1BFD

person_profile

MeNo001

https://scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t39.35426-6/439726453_389837387226801_3142327020959542254_n.jpg?_nc_cat=109&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=c53f8f&_nc_ohc=ZMw86374mvAAb7fczk4&_nc_ht=scontent-atl3-1.xx&oh=00_AfDsmVJ9LbzEB3c0tHmx6e7QZ5Z8CG702BJ2tGZrfPNeKw&oe=662D091D

What’s more embarrassing than a butt dial? Butt dialing your boss… And leaving a dirty voicemail when you’re uhh… “thinking” about them.<br /> Just had a sexual fantasy with my boss. I stand on legs that are just as shaky as he said they’d be. My throat hurts from moaning and I’m sore as all get-out. As I stand, my phone clatters to the floor.<br /> I reach down to pick it up—<br /> And freeze in horror.<br /> Ruslan’s name is lighting up my screen.<br /> And the call is active.<br /> For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, I’ve been masturbating to the absolute filthiest fantasy I’ve ever had, starring Ruslan Oryolov.<br /> ————————<br /> Emma<br /> If anyone has a reason to cry, it’s me. My boss is an arrogant prick and my sister is dead and her husband is more of a burden than a help and I have three innocent kids I’m doing my best to raise right but I can’t seem to catch a break and I need sleep and food and more coffee and a vacation and a fresh start and—the list just goes on. One reason for each of my thousand tears.<br /> “Auntie Em! Auntie Em, wake up.”<br /> I come to with a start. The sun is slanting in through the blinds and I have absolutely no freaking idea what planet I’m on. I feel a sharp line of pain on my cheek. It takes me a long moment to realize that it’s because I have a shoelace plastered to my skin. I peel it off with a wince and look up to see Josh standing over me.<br /> “Auntie Em, it’s 7:45. We’re late for school.”<br /> The next fifteen minutes are a blur. I get the girls up and dressed in the least coordinated outfits in the history of terrible parenting. I hurl random food into their lunchboxes with no regard for nutritional value. And then we’re all sprinting out the door.<br /> Ben, needless to say, doesn’t so much as lift a finger to help.<br /> I get the evil eye from the receptionist at the kids’ school when I drop them off well into first period. I just pop a peck on each of their foreheads and then turn to Bane.<br /> I get another evil eye from the lobby receptionist there, too, but I don’t quite realize why until I’m in the elevator up to the thirtieth floor and I catch sight of my reflection in the polished bronze.<br /> I look like an absolute shitshow. My hair is a rat’s nest on my head and my blouse is on backwards. The fashionable one-shoulder cutout is framing my frayed bra strap instead of a tasteful slice of arm.<br /> Wet street dogs are more put-together than I am.<br /> It’s way too late to go back now, though. I can already imagine Ruslan’s eyebrow. It’s probably halfway up his scalp by now. His voice is going to be absolutely frigid when he hears me come stumbling in. Something like:<br /> “You have got to be kidding me.”<br /> Wait. That wasn’t my imagination. That was actually his voice.<br /> I open my eyes and turn around to realize that the elevator doors have opened—and who should be standing there but my beloved, benevolent boss?<br /> Sure enough, his eyebrow is locked and loaded and that cruelly sharp jaw of his clenched so tight that I wonder idly if he has a good dentist on speed dial.<br /> I open my mouth to defend myself, but what is there even to say? “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I fell asleep after—It was a long night and—I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”<br /> He doesn’t so much as blink. “I expect you to dress appropriately for your job, Ms. Carson,” he growls. “Not do the walk of shame through my building.”<br /> I frown. “The walk of—? Hold on. No, that’s not what this is. I didn’t—”<br /> “You’re wearing yesterday’s skirt and flaunting your undergarments like you think you can seduce your way out of being—” He checks his watch. “—two and a half hours late. I’m not sure if you think I’m stupid or easy. I’m also not sure which of those two would offend me more.”<br /> One word snags my attention. “Seduce?” I parrot stupidly.<br /> Out of nowhere, thoughts of what it would look like to seduce Ruslan Oryolov come prancing through my head.<br /> Wrapping his tie around my fist and bringing that smirking snarl down to my lips for a taste.<br /> Lying back on his desk, pencil skirt hiked above my hips, while he shoves my panties to the side and devours me like his last meal.<br /> On my knees on his office carpet as he stands over me and—<br /> “Ms. Carson, I’m not interested in your explanations. Go do your job. Before I find someone else to do it for you.”<br /> With that, he brushes past me and gets on the elevator. I turn and look dumbly at him as the doors close on his face. The last thing I see is the arrogant slant of his mouth.<br /> Then that, too, disappears.<br /> My cheeks are burning red for the rest of the day. Luckily, I have an extra cardigan at my desk, so I’m able to cover up the worst of my wardrobe malfunction.<br /> But my phone keeps pinging all day long with messages from Ruslan. Do this. Send that. Fax this. Email that. He’s as unbearable as ever. Everything from the expiration date on his coffee creamer to the status of the conference room chairs he’s so anal about merits yet another scathing comment from him. And after yesterday’s nightmare, I’m running on fumes.<br /> My only saving grace is that he has a gala tonight, so he’s scheduled to leave the office at 5:00 P.M. sharp. I’m counting down the last ten seconds until the clock strikes five like I’m a Times Square partier on New Year’s Eve.<br /> “Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One…”<br /> Ping. Another text. I moan and look down to see the devil’s name pop up on my phone.<br /> RUSLAN: My office. Now.<br /> Goddammit. I was so close.<br /> Sighing, I get up and slink inside.<br /> “Shut the door,” he orders. It’s dark in here. The curtains are sealed tight and the temperature is Arctic. He’s a mass of shadows behind his desk, huge and fragrant. The only thing I can see is the sharp light of his amber eyes.<br /> “Sit.” A shadowy hand points at the chair across from his desk.<br /> I perch at the edge of the seat in question. My nerves are buzzing and frayed. I’m so, so tired. But I can’t show him that. Matter of fact, I refuse to show him that.<br /> I won’t give the smug prick the satisfaction of thinking he’s outlasted me.<br /> “I asked you yesterday if I had your full attention,” he begins. “I’m not so sure I do. So let me say this: if your priorities lie anywhere other than this company, then I will find a new assistant. I’m not a nice man, Ms. Carson. So believe me when I tell you that this is not the kind of place where you get three strikes before something bad happens. You mess up once—you’re gone. Am I making myself clear?”<br /> I swallow. “Yes, sir.”<br /> He nods. “Good. Be here on time tomorrow. Dress like you intend to keep your job. Now, if you’ll excuse me… there’s the door.”<br /> He looks down at his phone and poof, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.<br /> But I. Am. Pissed.<br /> He doesn’t know what I’m going through. He doesn’t know Ben is snoring and farting in my living room, or that three little kids are waiting on me to pick them up from after-school care. He doesn’t know that I buried my sister or that I’m barely keeping my head above water. He doesn’t know anything.<br /> “No.” I blurt it before I can think better of it. “No. No. I’m not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I’m a—I mean, screw you, I’m a person! I have a life and hobbies and people who depend on me. I’m real! So I’d appreciate it very much if you’d pull your smug head out of your smug prick and treat me with some respect for once.”<br /> Ruslan blinks.<br /> Blinks.<br /> Blinks.<br /> “Is there something else, Ms. Carson?”<br /> That’s when I realize that my whole little tirade took place entirely in my head. It wasn’t real. All imagined. Just a pleasant little detour to a fantasy land where I give him my two cents and then some.<br /> I swallow past the nasty taste in my throat and stand. “No, sir,” I say quietly. “Nothing at all.”<br /> -<br /> I ended the call with my best friend, Phoebe.<br /> Then a face pops up on the black screen of my mind’s eye.<br /> It’s Ruslan because, like I told Pheebs, he haunts me even when I’m off the clock. He’s smiling that smile she described. That come-to-bed-and-let-me-show-you-what-I-can-do-to-you smile. The camera of my imagination pulls back and floats down.<br /> Imaginary Ruslan is wearing an ivory white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone. Enough to see a dusting of dark chest hair and the edge of a tattoo I can’t quite make out. He flexes his forearms in front of him. Those knuckles crack, louder than I expected, and I let out a surprised little gasp.<br /> I like when you make that noise, he croons. Shall I see if I can make you do it again?<br /> I’m nodding before I’m even realizing what I’m doing. “Make me moan,” I plead.<br /> I’m also touching the inside of my knee before I realize what I’m doing. But it’s not my hands that are doing it—or at least, it doesn’t feel like it’s my hands. It’s Ruslan’s hands, huge and powerful, palming my thigh and drifting up under the edge of my pencil skirt.<br /> You’ve been a naughty assistant, he growls, breath minty in my face where it mingles with the woodsy spice of his cologne. There’s a faint laugh on the edge of his voice, like he knows that this whole thing is crazy but he’s just going with it because it’s hotter than it is ridiculous. You’ve been so very, very bad. Step into my office and shut the door.<br /> The rest of the world disappears like I just followed his orders. Gone is my messy apartment and the lingering smell of burrito cheese. Ruslan is all I smell now.<br /> That cologne.<br /> That breath.<br /> Beneath it, that musk that sets my nerve endings on fire.<br /> “Are you going to punish me, Ruslan?” I whisper.<br /> I’m on the literal edge of my seat, grinding and bucking against my fingers. Imaginary Ruslan has me eating out of the palm of his hand. I’d do anything for him. Say anything. Be anything.<br /> Imaginary Ruslan is every bit the cruel prick that real Ruslan is. He said he’d keep my orgasms to himself, but I feel like I stole this one from him. The euphoria of it rips through me in one endless lightning bolt after the next, until finally, what feels like an hour later, I come back to something like normal consciousness with drool on my lips and my fingers wet and sticky with my own desire.<br /> I stand on legs that are just as shaky as he said they’d be. My throat hurts from moaning and I’m sore as all get-out. As I stand, my phone clatters to the floor.<br /> I reach down to pick it up—<br /> And freeze in horror.<br /> Ruslan’s name is lighting up my screen.<br /> And the call is active.<br /> The reality of what is happening clicks in my gut immediately, but it takes a few delayed moments before my head comes to terms with it.<br /> For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, I’ve been on a call with Ruslan Oryolov.<br /> For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, I’ve been masturbating to the absolute filthiest fantasy I’ve ever had, starring Ruslan Oryolov.<br /> For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, my phone has been recording every last moan and gasp and breath and twitch I made while I begged for his mercy and pleaded for him to make me come.<br /> Did Ruslan hear the whole thing?<br /> -<br /> “It’s over. My life as I know it is over. R.I.P. to me.”<br /> “I’m sorry, who is this?”<br /> “Pheebs!”<br /> She chuckles while I stare at my reflection in the mirror and try not to throw up. My phone is lying on the bathroom counter on speakerphone, mostly because my palms have been sweating since I saw the meeting invite in my calendar for today.<br /> 9:00 A.M. – 09:07:32 A.M.: Emma Carson 1-on-1 with Ruslan Oryolov.<br /> “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Anyway, rewind, take a deep breath, then tell me what’s going on in your big girl voice. Unburden yourself. Take all the time you need. Just make it quick because I have a 9 o’clock appointment.”<br /> I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet now, the same way that Reagan does when she needs to pee really bad. “Yeah, so do I. With him.”<br /> “Ah. Oh, wait—oh.”<br /> I first called Phoebe last night right after realizing what I’d done. Her reaction was a dizzying mixture of pride and horror. I believe her exact words were, “Sure, it’s mortifying, but I’m glad you got your rocks off. Knew you had it in you.”<br /> She’s a little more reassuring now that things are escalating out of control. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he heard the voicemail, Em. Maybe this is just a standard, no-big-deal, super-boring-business-stuff Thursday morning meeting.”<br /> “It’s scheduled for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Precisely.”<br /> “Hm.” There’s a beat of silence. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”<br /> “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got for me? I’m gonna lose my job, Phoebe!”<br /> “You don’t know that for sure. Just take a deep breath and go in there, see what he wants. Play it cool, y’know?”<br /> “And what if what he wants is to kick my arse to the curb with a recommendation letter that claims I’m a dirty bimbo?”<br /> “I mean, there’s probably a market for that.” I moan as Phoebe’s laughter fades into a serious tone. “Listen, boo: whatever happens, you’re a strong, smart, confident woman and you’re gonna land on your feet. And until you do, I’ve got your back.”<br /> Her words mean everything to me, but I know that Phoebe doesn’t have much margin for error in her life, either. She struggles just as hard as I do. If she is able to help, it still wouldn’t put a dent in all the bills and loans looming over me.<br /> “Thanks for the pep talk. I’ve gotta go to my doom now.”<br /> “Keep your pecker up!”<br /> I blink. “Huh?”<br /> “Oklahoma talk. It means, like, ‘break a leg,’ but for Midwesterners.”<br /> If I weren’t worried about losing my job and ending up homeless on the street with three kids, I’d laugh. Instead, I say one more miserable goodbye, then spend a solid three minutes dry-heaving into one of the empty bathroom stalls.<br /> Once I’ve sufficiently bruised my stomach lining, I slink out of the bathroom and waste the remaining two minutes before the meeting standing outside of Ruslan’s door, watching the clock steal my life away one second at a time.<br /> “You okay, Emma?” asks Katie Miller, another of the executive assistants on this floor, as she passes by.<br /> “Dandy,” I mumble. “Just waiting for the noose.”<br /> “What was that?”<br /> “Nothing. I like your earrings. Have a good day.”<br /> She raises her brow a smidge. I’m not usually so dismissive, but I can’t concentrate on small talk right now. Not when I’m T-minus thirty seconds away from the end of my career.<br /> Dear God, I know I don’t pray to you often. Or, well, ever. But please help me out today and I’ll definitely consider starting on a more semi-regular basis.<br /> Great. Now, I’m bargaining with God. New low, Emma. New low.<br /> I take a deep breath and walk into his office. The shades are tight, snuffing out all the light of the Manhattan morning beyond. It’s like a bear cave in here—and the grizzly in question is sitting at his desk, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m standing in front of his desk.<br /> “Sit.”<br /> The moment my rear end is parked, he puts his phone down and looks at me. Just looks at me.<br /> In the eighteen months that I’ve worked for him, he’s never once given me the benefit of his full attention. Even during our morning meetings, he’s either on his phone, flipping through files, or typing away on his laptop. I used to be annoyed about it. I’m only now realizing I should have been grateful.<br /> Should I say something?<br /> Maybe he wants me to break the silence. Maybe I’m supposed to give him an explanation, an apology, something. But the more the silence stretches on, the less I’m capable of breaking it.<br /> I decide once again that those amber eyes of his should be outlawed.<br /> “I heard the voicemail,” he says at last.<br /> I can’t place his tone. Amusement? Anger? Disbelief?<br /> “Do you have anything to say, Ms. Carson?”<br /> I launch into the apology I spent most of last night practicing in the mirror. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Oryolov. I have no idea what I was thinking. The whole thing was an accident; I didn’t realize I’d dialed you. I was so tired and out of it and… I can assure you that it will never happen again. I swear.”<br /> My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but I try to keep my voice steady. I can’t sound too desperate, although that’s exactly what I am.<br /> “Tell me, Ms. Carson: what would you do in my place?”<br /> “I would give the plucky, hard-working assistant another chance, maybe?” It’s a long shot, but I figure, what the heck? I just wish I’d asked it without my voice rising to an Alvin and the Chipmunks pipsqueak at the end.<br /> His mouth twitches with the promise of a smile, but it’s gone as quick as it came. “I know what you sound like when you climax, Emma. Is that the soundtrack you want running through all our interactions from now on?”<br /> Flushing the brightest of reds, I shake my head. “If we could maybe just forget this whole thing—”<br /> “The way I see it, there are only two options here.”<br /> I hold my breath.<br /> “One, I fire you.”<br /> There it is. I knew it. I’m done for. I’m going to need to call the welfare office and see what—<br /> “Or two… I give you exactly what you want.”<br /> I almost choke on my own saliva. What little is left in my gaping mouth. “W-what?”<br /> Silently, Ruslan offers me the blue folder lying in front of him. I pick it up with shaky hands and open the cover. It takes me a few long moments to figure out what on earth I’m looking at.<br /> A… contract?<br /> I read through the first page, feeling a strange sensation bubble up in my chest.Then, since I’m clearly misunderstanding something, I read through the first page again. And again. And again.<br /> Only then do I look up. “Is this a joke?”<br /> He doesn’t blink. “I never joke.”<br /> “It’s just that, it seems like, from what I read, um—”<br /> “I will offer you money and security in exchange for live encores of the little performance you sent me last night. In addition to meeting my other needs.”<br /> “And by ‘needs,’ you mean…intercourse?”<br /> He tilts his chin down and regards me solemnly. “How explicit would you like me to be, Ms. Carson?”<br /> What.<br /> “So this—” I raise the blue folder in my hand. “—is a sugar daddy contract?”<br /> His brow furrows. “I’d prefer to call it a ‘Friend With Benefits’ contract.”<br /> “But we’re not friends.”<br /> He smirks. “Fair enough. No, we’re not.”<br /> There’s a throbbing in my head that reminds me of the first time I got drunk. Sienna and I had snuck into Dad’s study the eve of my sixteenth birthday and stolen a 1984 Chateau Latour. We passed it back and forth, taking turns sipping from the bottle like it was cheap bagged drink until the whole thing was gone.<br /> For a moment, I think about what Sienna would say if she were here. Would she be outraged or intrigued? Would she slap the smug prick and storm out?<br /> Or would she grin and say, Double the price and I’m in.<br /> What would you do, Si?<br /> And then it hits me, a bolt of lightning straight to the chest, almost like she’s speaking to me herself. I miss her so much, it hurts. But she left little bits of herself behind, in all three of her children. The same kids I’m working off to protect.<br /> That right there is the answer.<br /> Sienna would have done whatever was best for her children.<br /> So I don’t slap him. I don’t storm out. I sit there and stare at my arrogant, prick boss who always gets exactly what he wants.<br /> And what he wants… is me.<br /> I meet Ruslan’s steely gaze. “What happens if I say no?”

MeNo001

https://facebook.com/61554251835273

LEARN_MORE